


between your heart and mine

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, canon compatible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 01:26:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6033037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the trying events of Maveth, Fitz and Simmons take comfort in shared habits and memories.</p>
<p>FS Secret Valentine Prompt: "Hesitant touches, meaningful glances, reminiscing on the Academy era."</p>
            </blockquote>





	between your heart and mine

accompanied by two playlists: [the touch of your hand](http://8tracks.com/theclaravoyant/the-touch-of-your-hand-fitzsimmons) and [that was the first day](http://8tracks.com/theclaravoyant/and-that-was-the-first-day-fitzsimmons) (10 songs each)

-

It was not as uncommon as most people thought, for Fitz to be in the lab before Simmons. It was just that, usually, her early appearances formed part of a well-kept routine of early waking, while his were usually the opposite. On such occasions, Fitz would probably have sought out familiar exercises for comfort against worry or nightmares, or found himself so driven by a design that he’d stopped noticing the passage of time. The frequency of these mornings was sporadic, but increasing, to the point where it was established that each could usually tell – by instinct, it was often joked, but more likely by the temperature of the kettle – whether or not they were the first one up.

This morning, the kettle sat cold, despite both its loving attendants roaming the halls in need of comfort.

Simmons had indeed woken early, but this time, not from habit. This morning, she had been chased from sleep as her nightmares prickled and grew into gripping, terrifying night terrors. Feverish and panicked, her head spinning, she had disappeared from her bedroom to find somewhere safer.

Fitz, on the other hand, had no panic left in him. His was not a wakefulness of terror or of passion, but rather a dull, ceaseless vigil he felt he must keep. He didn’t dare breach Simmons’ privacy or personal space, least not so soon after such a drastic personal tragedy, but it was in part worry for her that kept him up, and the need he felt to be available instantly, should she call upon him. His task ran deeper than that, though. It was almost as if, somewhere in his mind or body, he believed without knowing it, that staying awake would ensure that the creature Simmons so feared would not return.

Fitz turned the circuit board over in his hands. He couldn’t quite get the patterns to make sense, but that was not a problem: he knew by instinct where everything was, what it meant, and what was needed. Muscle memory, Coulson called it. It was just his cognitive mind that refused to engage, unable to work through the surreal thoughts and feelings, dreamlike visions, of almost dying, and of shooting – burning – something that was already dead.

“Fitz?”

He responded sluggishly, only looking up as Simmons closed the door behind her, and crept into the lab. She twisted her fingers together, her lips moving silently as she tried to think what to say next.

“That’s my cardigan,” he observed.

“Do you mind?” Her eyes begged him not to. “I – I was looking for you. It was on your bed.”

He nodded, and shrugged, for good measure. He didn’t mind at all, but words were coming slowly, as if he had to drag them up through tar. Simmons seemed to understand this. She weaved her way to her own table in silence, sat down, and pulled her chair in.

Unlike her counterpart, Simmons was restless. Babbling about nothing would be a great release, she thought – except for the memories that would surface, of all the times words had come slowly to Fitz before. Memories of talking to what felt at times like a brick wall, and of wondering if he was even hearing, let alone understanding, what she was saying. She was only just beginning to feel that synchronicity they’d once had returning. She didn’t dare jeopardise it, or jeopardise him, in this vulnerable state. Instead, she had to settle for copying out some notes into longhand, and stealing furtive glances over the tops of the dividers, at her steady-handed but clearly shaken partner.

-

_“Fitz? Are you okay?”_  

_“Hmmwhat?” He was staring into the stream of the water, rubbing the same scalpel blade clean that he had been cleaning for a good minute already._

_“I think that one’s ready for sterilisation, don’t you?”_  

_Simmons plucked the blade from his hand and dropped it carefully into the nearby pot of disinfectant solution. Then she perched against the bench, looking up at him, holding the rest of the instruments out of his reach so that he had to look at her._  

_“What’s wrong?” she asked again._  

_“Why did I have to take this class?” Fitz wondered, his voice strained and forlorn. “I don’t plan to ever do any- anything like that again.”_

_Her brows creased._

_“Was it the rabbits?”_

_He nodded._

_“Oh Fitz,” she breathed. “Here, let me do that.”_  

_She pushed him gently out of the way, letting him finally flush the task from his mind as best he could since he no longer had to stare at the reminders. He leaned against a nearby bench, the colour slowly returning to his cheeks as Simmons calmly finished up._

_“What say we get some fresh air?” she offered, all but pulling him out the door._  

_“I can still feel it,” he said. “I can still smell it on my hands.”_

_He wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be an objection - a statement of the fruitlessness of going outside - or an agreement, but Simmons wasn’t giving him much of a choice. She snatched up both of their bags on the way out, and didn’t stop tugging on his arm until they’d reached the large outdoor quadrangle._

_“Sit down,” she insisted._

_Fitz obeyed without too much thought, but he had recovered enough of his cognitive faculty to frown curiously when Simmons set her bag down and began to rifle through it. Moments later, she withdrew a thermos, the lid of which unscrewed to become a cup. She pulled out a spare mug too, and two teabags, and a tiny resealable plastic bag full of sugar._  

_“I find it’s best to always be prepared,” she pointed out. “Plus, the tea here is_ terrible.”

_The last word was a whisper, like a secret, like somebody might hear and get offended, but her face was screwed up with the vehemence of the truth of the statement._

_“There’s some nice stuff on Buchanan Ave,” Fitz offered. “They have a little UK-themed shop thing there.”_

_“The one that smells like knitting?”_

_Fitz tried to think back. The remnants of formaldehyde and disinfectant were distracting, but he’d been to the store enough times to at least somewhat recall what it smelt like._

_“Huh. I guess it does.”_

_Simmons smiled. Distraction successful._  

_“Cheers,” she said, raising her mug as she offered him the other. He gently tapped the sides together._

_“Cheers.”_  

-

“I’m going to make tea,” Simmons announced. “What would you like?”

It was sudden, and unexpectedly loud at this time of the morning. Her voice, and the ordinariness of it all, shone light into Fitz’ thoughts and shook him from his reverie. In his mind, it was hot, but dark. Stuffy. And the _smell._ The plume of fire. The steadiness of the flare gun in his hands. In the seconds that passed after her question, all of it blurred into orange and blue, and drained away, leaving his limbs exhausted and his mind foggy.

“Wha…Whatever you’re having,” he managed as he stumbled into the present.

Simmons raised an eyebrow; _what am I supposed to do with that?_

“Fruit or leaf?” she pressed.

“Leaf.”

“Black or green?”

“Black.”

“English or Irish?”

“English.”

“There we go then.”

She gentled her expression, all but sticking her tongue out as she passed him and headed for the kitchen. Fitz smiled to himself.

- 

_“It’s a trick my Mum taught me,” he explained. “She says, nine times out of ten, you actually do know what you want. You just have to decide. Close your eyes.”_

_“…Why?”_

_“Just do it, okay?”_

_Simmons watched his face carefully for any signs that this might be a trick. Fitz was leaning in suspiciously close, but otherwise, all seemed innocent. She hesitantly shut her eyes, curious to see what pseudo-psychological tricks Fitz’ mother had up her sleeve this time._  

_“Isn’t deciding just…figuring out what you want?” Simmons wondered. “By definition?”_

_“No – well, yes – okay, look.” He took her hands, grounding her as well as protecting his own face, because she tended to move her hands when she spoke. “Lunch, right? On-campus or off campus?”_

_“On. Obviously. It takes too long otherwise.”_  

_“Hot or cold?”_

_“Hot.”_

_“Vegetarian?”_

_“Yes. I had meat yesterday.”_  

_“Spicy?”_  

_“Mmm…Yes.”_

_“There we go then. Aloo Gobi Masala from Carter’s. Done.”_  

_“But that’s halfway across campus!”_

_“Neither of us have any classes for the rest of the day. We can spare the time. Stop and smell the roses, Simmons. Homework will still be there.”_  

_He massaged her shoulders briefly, poking fun. Stuck for a proper argument, she pouted, and muttered –_

_“The roses are outside Admin.”_

-

They’d come such a long way since those days: changed a lot, if not necessarily in a forward or upward progression at all times. Their evolution was attested to by lots of little things, from the shape of Fitz’ handwriting and the stack of paperwork left to grow on Simmons’ desk, to the muscles and scars that shaped their bodies. All together, these tiny incremental changes seemed to form an almost entirely new picture of their lives.

Yet here they stood, together again – still – after all this time, and after all the forces that had tried to separate them. Here they stood smiling as Simmons poured out the tea and lamented a lack of biscuits, and Fitz remembered with quiet hope, all the times she had worn his cardigans before. Times like when they’d failed their field assessments, or when it had been announced that her hero was irreparably affected by a debilitating degenerative brain condition. They’d come through all those things okay so far. This was just another.

“…it was probably Hunter,” Simmons was saying as she removed the teabags one at a time. “But he blamed Daisy, not Bobbi, so I’m not sure.”

“Were there chocolate chip ones left?” Fitz asked. “Daisy wouldn’t go for the gingernuts if there were.”

“Good point. But what about Lincoln?”

“Mmm, I don’t know. We shall have to interrogate him on his biscuit preferences before this month’s run.”

“We shall.”

Simmons’ face lit up with a grin at their mundane deviousness as she pushed the tea across the bench to Fitz. Their fingers touched, and conversation paused as each met the other’s eye.

_Do you remember when you had to kill the rabbit? I never found out whether you actually did it or not. I suppose it doesn’t matter. I just wanted to tell you how sweet it was – well maybe sweet is the wrong word - but how I was touched by your distress. It’s important to be reminded of the consequences of the things we do, and even though it hurts sometimes, I…I love to see the strength and the goodness of your heart._

She almost opened her mouth to say it, but it had been difficult enough to formulate properly in her head. It would never come out right, it would sound too sappy. It was just too hard to convey, with words, what she meant; harder still, to get him to truly, deeply believe her. And even if she could achieve that, the way he looked at her was already so overwhelming: such admiration and yearning, it baffled and flattered her all at once. To hear such poignant, floral, praising truths about himself from her lips would only make that gaze grow stronger. It might be the death of them both.

_What do you want to say?_  

Not for the first time, Fitz felt the pull to ask. It was a buzzing, curious desire, not quite urgent, but not casual either. If he could have stopped time to satisfy it, he would have, but as it was, he only had the moment that was slowly stretching out between them.

_You puzzle me. How can you keep such important things to yourself? I worry you might not know when to be as honest about the things that hurt you as you are about the things that make you happy. Have you noticed that? You’re most honest about things that make you happy? It’s so beautiful, it really is. I could stare at your happiness forever._  

He swallowed his words for so many reasons. Because Simmons had so much else to think about, and feel – and so, so much of it was not happiness. Because Fitz felt so much that once he started telling her all the things he loved about her, he might never stop. Because that would make her feel overwhelmed and uncomfortable, like she had to give something back to him that she already felt she could never equally return. And if he did stop there, on how beautiful she was when she was happy, she’d probably feel guilty or ugly about being sad, and that would never be what he meant.

But most of all, Fitz stayed silent because she needed his silence. It was important to her – empowering, hopefully, if he was reading her correctly – that she fight her own battles. It was important to her that she struggled on her own. It made her feel stronger. As painful as it could be to watch, and as dangerous as it could be to try to strike that balance between independence and isolation, it was her journey to take. His place was on the home front, trying to stop the wars, and when that failed, waiting with open arms and a candle in the window to welcome her home from them.

“What are you smiling about over there?” Simmons wondered, raising a curious eyebrow.

“Nothing…just wondering whether or not Lincoln was a Jammy Dodger man? What do you think?”

He was lying, of course, but he didn’t drop the smile, so Simmons figured it couldn’t be all that bad. In fact, he was probably thinking about her, and didn’t want to say. The thought warmed her heart, and at the same time, sent a little thrill through her that she tried and failed to disguise with a sip of tea.

“Mm, I don’t know about that,” Simmons mused, grinning. “I feel like he’d be more of an Oreo man.”

“That’s true. That is true. Then he and Daisy would be biscuit soul mates.”

“Which reminds me, how do you feel about Monte Carlos these days?”


End file.
